


Like You Imagined When You Were Young

by afterafternoons



Category: The Book of Mormon - Ambiguous Fandom, The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Chris Thomas is my child, Chris Thomas is the smallest boy, I will protect him at all costs, In which James Church is tall, It's Time, M/M, Pining, Self-Indulgent, Sorry McPriceley isn't prominent, What am I doing?, churchtarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 15:14:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19396765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterafternoons/pseuds/afterafternoons
Summary: Chris looks up, hands in his pockets and he looks out into the darkness. It’s all encompassing and he can only see a few feet ahead, but he feels small. Especially next to James — but maybe, he figures, he owes it to himself to verbalize his actions. To see that maybe he isn’t doing himself any favors, that maybe this is just a less destructive form of self sabotage. “It’s residual.” He offers, quietly at first. “From my sister dying. I think I’m scared to let people in, because you never know when someone’s going to walk away."In which an unfruitful Companion Exchange Day provides Chris Thomas with a new friend who's surprisingly good at getting him to be candid about his hopes and fears.





	Like You Imagined When You Were Young

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't written anything in a really long time, but this had to be done. This is purely self-indulgent because I love Chris and James. 
> 
> Title is taken from "When You Were Young" sung by Benjamin Francis Leftwich.
> 
> I thought "you sit there in your heartache, waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways," was maybe too long of a title.

Elder McKinley keeps an organized desk, with a color-coded calendar and a compact filing system. It’s home to the hut’s only landline and Post-It note doodles are pinned to the cork board above his desk, left by bored elders accepting phone calls from family.

Neatly printed in red sharpie across the day’s date are the words: COMPANION EXCHANGE.

For District 9 Leader, Elder McKinley, the day consists of evaluations and paperwork. For his mission companion, Chris Thomas, the hardest part of his day is getting along with someone who isn’t Connor. (An easy task, by any means, unless paired with Elder Neely.)

It’s expected, on Missions, for companions to assume near perfect synchronization — but changes in schedule, like exchange days, set Connor going at a pace too quick to keep up with.

Hurriedly, he whisks the box of manila file folders off of his desk, resting it on the edge of his bed as he rifles through the paperwork. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to rush you,” he apologizes absentmindedly, Chris left ten steps behind, still getting dressed for the day as Connor licks his forefinger to sift through papers faster. “I just need to find Elder Michaels’ paperwork and then I’ll be set to go, I think.”

“Connor, breathe.” Chris demonstrates, taking in a deep breath as he tucks his shirt into his dress slacks. “These things always go smoothly.” He’s against simply calling his mission brothers ‘Elder,’ finding it reminds him of the satirical SNL game show skit “What’s That Name?” and is often done in lieu of bothering to remember one another’s actual names. So, he makes a point of bending mission rules to remember everyone’s first and last names.

“For me.” Connor says pointedly, still looking for Michaels’ paper now that he’d found the right file. “Whatever fight you and Neely had last week is still unresolved — aha!” Triumphantly, he waves a paper at Chris, who offers nothing more than a congratulatory eyebrow raise.

“Neely and I getting along just isn’t in the cards, Connor.” Chris shrugs, tightening his tie before donning his name tag. 

In theory, Connor would like to run his district like a well oiled machine, but realistically there are issues even he can’t fix. Chris’ repetitive quarrels with Neely don’t even top the list. There’s Arnold Cunningham and there’s concern for Kevin Price, but right now there’s a job to be done. Gently, Connor pushes the box back onto his desk as Chris kneels to tie his shoes. “Today’s not going to be a problem right?” He double-checks, “You’ll be with Elder Church.” 

“Con, I’ll be fine.” Chris assures him, straightening any wrinkles in his shirt as he stands up. “All you have to worry about today is baptisms. Arnold and Kevin might be exactly what we need to get the ball rolling — or maybe companion exchange will prove more fruitful this time than in the past few months?”

Connor’s face floods with brief concern, “Are you saying we’re bad companions?” 

“We’re horrible influences on one another.” Chris quips jokingly as he sets his hands on Connor’s shoulders, “But we can do this, okay?"

“Okay.” Connor breathes, nodding his head. “Okay. Just don’t get in a fight this time, please.”

Chris rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, as if fighting is beneath him while Connor shrugs his hands off of his shoulders, “O ye, of little faith.”

Chris jokes to ease the tension, always ready with a smart, sarcastic comment to illustrate his deadpan humor. After the loss of his sister, he was of the mind that his smiles held value and he’d only ever give what he was sure he could receive back so that he never lost anything important ever again. Though, in time, Connor McKinley has foiled these plans; able to effortlessly elicit laughter from his dispassionate friend or a reluctant, tight lipped smile — and it’s not that Chris isn’t happy, it’s more that he hasn’t yet resolved his own fear of losing the ones he loves most.

Connor ushers him out of their shared room, grabbing Michaels’ paperwork on their way out. As expected, Elders Michael and Church are waiting expectantly in the living area, going over scripture as they eat their breakfast.

“Do you want to start lesson prep?” Chris proposes, nodding to the vitiated couch to suggest a more semi more comfortable workspace.

Wordlessly, James Church draws himself to his full height; towering nine inches over Chris, who’s perhaps the shortest elder with a spitfire personality to match. His height, Chris would argue, is part of his appeal.

“Hungry?” James asks, offering up the uneaten portion of his breakfast.

Chris blinks; accepting the other Pop-Tart and coming to the silent realization that his harmless plan to lighten the mood by suggesting to the new recruits, Kevin and Arnold, that all of the other elders call him Pop-Tarts because he, ‘loves them so much,’ will follow him, perhaps, for the rest of his life. Truth be told, Pop-Tarts are not his favorite breakfast item — or dessert. (He’s not quite sure which food category they truly fall under.) And the standard brown sugar cinnamon flavor James has just offered him is one of his least favorite flavors, but he takes it anyway with a succinct, “Thank you.”

“Was there a particular lesson you wanted to teach?” James asks as Chris sinks into the couch, tucking one leg underneath himself.

Pulling the Pop-Tart apart, Chris pauses to think, “Service?”

Quite honestly, there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach that they’re staring down an impossible task. Two months without a baptism hasn’t done anything to boost morale and his earlier optimism had been intended to boost Connor’s wavering confidence.

“I think,” James ventures, “we have to refrain from making our service sound like pity, because sometimes our phrasing can be contextualized that way. Instead of saying we serve those who need assistance, I think we should focus more on preaching about opportunities to serve? A lot of these people think they’re better off without us, we need to ease into this carefully.”

“Right.” Chris nods, combating the distracted voice in his head that draws him to look at the tight fit of James’ shirt around his biceps. Adrenaline swells where butterflies should be and Chris tries to swallow his surface level attraction to focus on the task at hand. “We have the opportunity to talk about spreading love and service to everyone, with the General in town.”

“We won’t convert any soldiers.” James sighs, failing to notice Chris’ wandering attention.

“Well,” Chris shrugs in disagreement, bringing himself back to the conversation at hand, “Not if we don’t try, right?”

“I’m not converting any soldiers.” James backtracks, packing his book back into his backpack as they prepare to head out. “They have guns, and as thick as the book is, it won’t protect me. I think Heavenly Father has bigger fish to fry than to keep me from being shot.”

Chris can’t help but snort at his remark. “Okay, we’re not converting any soldiers.”

“At this rate,” James confesses earnestly, meeting Chris’ eyes, “I don’t think anyone’s converting anyone.”

“Gosh.” Chris breathes gunning for the joke now that he’s been given the opportunity, “Religion is just the biggest turn off, isn’t it?”

James’ lips twist into a smile. Chris pockets the interaction as a win and they head into the village.

Later that night, Chris slides his backpack off of his shoulders to hang over the back of his usual seat at the dinner table. Doing the same, James sidles up beside him to look over the chalkboard. The other elders, back from proselytizing, are completing their nightly personal studies before dinner in the open living area behind them. After a period of silence between the two, Chris gestures to the board. “Well,” He says, without good news to deliver, “we’re still at zero.”

James nods. Then, after a moment, “It could be negative.”

“It’s not negative.” Chris points out, as if that’ll make any of them feel any better.

“So, that means no one gave up on religion.” James tries, glancing at Chris as they lean back against their chairs.

Chris shrugs, “Or died.”

“Morbid.” James comments, silence sitting heavy between the two.

Their attention snaps to an agitated Connor, emerging from his room with notebook in hand and Michaels in tow. Chris is quick to deduce that it isn’t Alex Michaels that Connor’s mad at by the confused look Michaels shares with the rest of the group. “I’m freaking out.” Connor announces, “I just got off the phone with the zone leader. The mission president wants a written progress report from us this week!”

“But,” Michaels sputters behind him, everyone sharing a collective glance at the board, “we don’t have any baptisms.”

Chris can tell that Connor’s trying, with all his will power, not to explode on anyone over his own anxiety. And more than that, he can tell that Connor blames himself for their deficiencies. “I know that.” He says, almost too calmly as he grits his teeth, “What are we gonna do?”

“What if we just . . .” James trails off, glancing at Chris. He can tell, right off the bat that it’s a bad idea. Something that Connor would never go for, but now he’s intrigued. Invested even, “say . . . we have some baptisms.”

Chris finds himself smiling — teeth and all, but quick to duck his head and fade into a content smirk as he reaches to itch his nose and hide the fact that he’s humored by the thought of Connor lying, to the Mission President of all people.

“What?” Connor blinks, “You mean, lie?”

Innocently, James shrugs and Chris feels a little less alone in his wavering faith now that someone else has spoken up to endorse a clear breaking of the carefully outlined rules. He tries hard to breathe through his nose, knowing that James had caught the tail end of his smile and is trying just as hard not to show his own amusement.

He almost misses the rest of the conversation, studying the ground as he tries to choke down silent laughter until his mood sours.

“I got the worst hell dreams the day after my sister died.” He contributes, crossing his arms over his chest to comfort himself. He’d forgotten, briefly, the merit there was in keeping his feelings guarded by making his smile hard to come by.

“Elder Price?” James straightens as the front door opens minutes past curfew, to reveal Arnold and a blood soaked Kevin Price. “What happened to you?”

“Africa . . . is nothing like the Lion King!” Kevin asserts shaking and on the verge of a breakdown worse than Connor’s or Chris’, “I think that movie took a lot of artistic license.”

Beside him, Arnold sets both he and Elder Price’s backpack onto the floor with a slight eye roll. As if Kevin were overreacting to the situation. “He’s upset,” Arnold explains, “because we just saw some guy get shot in the face.”

James glances at Chris with a pointed look, scratching the back of his neck in an attempt to make it less obvious as he preens over their decision to avoid the General and his men. In return, Chris offers an appreciative nod, before ducking his own head to dig his shoe into the ground — unsure where any of them go from here.

“I cannot continue my mission in this way.” Kevin decides, “There’s absolutely nothing I can accomplish here.”

And that stings, because it’s true. He isn’t wrong and Chris will give him that; but he’s new and everyone else has been doing this for months. He finds it kind of unfair for Kevin to barge in and think he’s above everyone else, but ultimately remains unsurprised because Kevin hasn’t made any attempts to hide his narcissism. Again, he’s distracted by his negative thinking as the shouting match escalates by the front door until it’s slammed closed and Kevin storms off.

Connor’s lost his cool and Arnold his companion and there’s no chance they’re eating together tonight with tensions this high.

In the aftermath, Chris approaches the board, using the side of his hand to wipe away any 0’s and replace them with -2’s. One for Kevin. The other for whoever Kevin was wearing.

Silently, James squeezes his shoulder.

“So your sister . . . ?” He trails off as they eat dinner, alone in the kitchen later that night — and they’re kind of breaking the rules, but Connor’s letting it slide because he’s stressing over the Kevin fiasco and in all actuality, this is a lot better than lying. (Not to mention they’re all under the same roof . . . save Kevin. But Connor didn’t want to talk about that particular when he allowed Chris out of his sight.)

“Died.” Chris swallows stabbing his spoon into his Cup Noodles, because there’s not much more to say than that. “Cancer. I wasn’t there.”

Silence. Then, “Sorry.”

“You didn’t kill her.” Chris shrugs morbidly, avoiding eye contact in the dim light they share across the kitchen table. He swallows again, poking his fork through the styrofoam in thought. “You know,” he begins to disclose, “I think I went on Mission for all the wrong reasons. I just couldn’t bear walking past her bedroom everyday and my house was just blanketed in sadness and I knew that accepting the Mission call would mean getting out of there, but I just have some resentment, I guess. It’s stupid. I know Heavenly Father didn’t kill Laura, but he didn’t stop it from happening either. There was no miracle cure.”

James nods, fishing for the right words. He knows, perhaps better than anyone that pity isn’t what Chris wants. “Well, he let Joseph Smith die too and . . . he kept my mom in an abusive relationship.” He says, awkwardly sharing his own trauma. “I think I was escaping too and maybe that’s selfish, but I told my mom that I’d only go if she filed for a restraining order and a divorce and she did that. I mean, I waited 19 years to get us away from my alcoholic dad and it took answering God’s call for me to do that.”

“So you believe?” Chris asks, glancing up at James, “Because, I don’t know. I’m on the fence. I think part of me feels like my family fell out of touch with the Church when Laura first got sick, because we were spending so much time weighing our options and trying to will her better — and that’s probably when we needed the Church the most, but we really rediscovered it after she died and it just wasn’t the same. My parents threw themselves into it, dragged me along behind them and now I’m here, committing fraud, or whatever.”

James listens, leaning back in his chair as he stirs his fork through his Cup Noodles. “I don’t think you’re wrong. The only person I’ve seen truly believe with all their heart is Kevin Price and where is he? He’s -1 on the baptism list and he’s wearing -2, so . . . Personally, I don’t know, what kind of Mormons were my family? My dad broke, like, every rule and my mom was too afraid to divorce him because she believed so much in her faith.”

“Where’s that put you?” Chris raises an eyebrow.

James thinks for a second, setting his Cup Noodles onto the table and surveying the room. “Across the table from you in Uganda, technically breaking the rules, I guess?”

Chris ducks his head to steal a silent laugh. “You got me there.”

This raw honesty is new to Chris, something he’d only ever really experienced with Connor. Connor, whom he trusts because he knows he won’t — nay, can’t — leave him. Connor, who isn’t dying of an incurable disease and whom Chris isn’t actively pining after. But it feels nice, to be honest with James and maybe they’re both on the brink of teary eyes and shaky breaths, but it feels better out than in.

Across the table, James laughs too as the mood lightens. “These taste so bad.” He confesses, “Is this what college is going to taste like?”

Chris seizes the opportunity, suddenly making eye contact with James. “I hate Pop-Tarts.” He says, adding onto James’ confession, “Like, the dessert ones are fine, but I hate the brown sugar cinnamon ones and I hate strawberry.”

“You, Pop-Tarts, hate Pop-Tarts?” James grins, biting back laughter.

Chris nods, “That’s literally what I just said.”

James leans back in his chair again, processing this new information. “But you ate the one I gave you this morning?”

“Because I was hungry.” Chris waves a dismissive hand, abandoning his Cup Noodles on the center of the table as well — his cup destroyed from poking his for through it repetitively. “I only said it because I thought it would be funny, not because I thought it would stick.”

James is still laughing as he cleans up the leftovers from their dinner, tossing the uneaten noodles into the trash. He knows it’s a waste and that there are starving people, but he wouldn’t wish Cup Noodles on anyone, especially after he and Chris had half-assed their way through their respective cups.

In the coming days, the district is shut down. After Chris’ talk with James, he feels slightly less guilty about their excommunication, convinced it would have happened anyway.

They find Kevin Price, but he’s different and Connor spends a lot of time trying to piece together a porcelain Kevin.

Most nights, Chris’ fingers stretch across the empty space in the bed next to his, wondering if Connor’s stayed through the night and frankly he’s unsurprised to find, most times, he hasn’t. Especially given his obvious infatuation for Kevin, but Chris keeps his teasing to a minimum, knowing full well that he’s not terribly discreet either.

“Are you going crazy?” James asks one morning when Chris stumbles into the shared bathroom, half-asleep. Suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t knocked, he’s glad he’s only faced with James and a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth as opposed to the risqué alternatives from any of the other former elders.

“What do you mean?” Chris snuffles, failing to comprehend as he stretches — as if this act alone will make him taller or any more awake than he currently is.

“I don’t know.” James shrugs, turning to spit into the sink, “It feels weird to me, to be here without purpose and I know Connor is occupied. So, I just figured you might be lonely. If I were you, I would miss Alex’s snoring.”

“Oh, I’m the snorer of the two of us.” Chris says a bit dumbly, still trying to clear the fog from his mind as he rubs at his eyes. “It is what it is, I guess?” He says through a yawn.

“Well, if you ever get lonely, I’m quite literally right down the hall.” James says, zipping his toothbrush away in his travel bag and taking his leave as Chris offers an appreciative nod as a token of his gratitude.

He strings James along just long enough to make him think he’d forgotten about his offer, afraid that if he came knocking too early he’d seem desperate for attention, but in a couple days time he finds himself leaning into the bedroom James and Alex share.

“Are you busy?” He inquires, drumming his fingers against the door frame.

James tucks away a pile of dress slacks, neatly folded and fresh from the clothesline as he weighs his answer. “Depends.” He decides, “What’re you up to, trouble?”

“No.” Chris says, a hint of laughter in his voice as he mistakes James’ well-intentioned nickname for an accusation of his prospective activities. “Actually, I wanted to get a leg up on game night. I have it on good authority that we’re playing Hide-And-Seek and I want to scope out some good hiding places beforehand, seeing as you’ll be my partner.”

“Will I now?” James quirks an eyebrow.

After being excommunicated, Connor had implemented game nights. With so much pent up energy in the hut, things were bound to explode — especially between some of the stronger personalities of the hut like Chris and Kevin and board games weren’t cutting it, so they turned to games that could be played outdoors on their own time after dinner. Connor’s only stipulation is that the games have to be played in pairs, per Nabulungi’s warning about potential dangers. (This rule was strongly reinforced when a game of “Murder in the Dark” had had to end abruptly after someone stumbled across a snake.)

For better or worse, these game nights elicit Chris’ competitive streak. James, for better or worse, a willing participant.

“Can we hide inside?” James conspires in a hushed whisper as they head out to the hallway.

Briefly, Chris debates. “Yes, but I think it would be a terrible idea. The bedrooms would probably be off limits and then where does that leave you? Under the sink or in the bathroom stall? Too easy.”

“This is going to be harder than it looks.” James sighs as they step out into the front, surveying the pretty much open space before them.

“Well, it’ll be dark.” Chris consoles, as if that changes things — and it does, only slightly because nights are darker in Uganda due to less light pollution, but the dark isn’t exactly a hiding spot.

“They’re building that shed.” James points out, “Or there’s trees . . . or climbing inside a dead animal like Leo DiCaprio in the Revenant, I don’t know.”

Chris wrinkles his nose, shooting James a disgusted look. “Absolutely not on that last suggestion.” He pauses briefly, for effect. Then, “Because I don’t see any dead animals around here and I’d have to get my hands dirty and it would be a whole thing.”

James smiles, kicking pebbles across the pavement as they walk. “Is it high stakes Hide-And-Seek or are you just high maintenance?”

“Rude.” Chris scoffs, feigning offense. “I came to win.”

Raising his hands in surrender, James concedes and later that night, about three rounds in and out of optimal hiding spots that meet Chris’ standards, they fall back on the shed.

“Christopher.” James hisses, intertwining their fingers together as they take off towards the opposite side of the hut. Behind them, Arnold and Nabulungi count backwards from 100 as fast as they possibly can, the sound of feet hitting the ground running, echoing around them.

“Wait.” Chris whispers, as James pulls the shed door shut behind them. Gently he weasels his hand out of James’, “I’m left handed. You’re contractually obligated to hold my right hand so both of us can still function.”

James is the first to laugh and then Chris and he’s not even thinking about the fact that he’s still holding James’ hand when Nabulungi opens the shed, beckoning them out. “I knew this was a bad hiding spot.” He accuses, in jest.

“Only because we used it last round.” Naba assures him and they set off in different directions to round up more players.

“I think I saw someone up in the tree.” Chris hums, tugging James along. With the sun well past set, it’s hard to make out who’s towering above him, but it doesn’t take long for Chris to grow tired of guessing. “We found you,” he says impatiently, “Get down.”

“Technically, we aren’t found until you tag us.” Neely shoots back and Chris could strangle him. His feud with Neely is inexplicable, but it burns bright and fast.

“Oh, fuck you.” Chris is quick to insult as Michaels shimmies out of the tree and Chris gives him a quick flick to the back for emphasis that he’s found. He waits, glancing back at James before his short fuse is blown. “That’s it,” he decides, “I’m coming up there.”

“Let me give you a boost.” James offers as Chris lets go of his hand.

“No.” He replies firmly, “I hate being picked up. I can do this myself.” And just as he’s said, in a matter of seconds, Chris is able to tag Neely without any help before jumping out of the tree and landing with both his feet on the ground.

“When were you going to tell me you had cat like reflexes?” James asks as Chris returns to his side. There are more players to find, but conversing comes easier now that everyone’s relaxed.

Chris shrugs jovially. “Information like that is on a need to know basis. If you must know, I was on the basketball team in high school.”

“You?” James raises an eyebrow, met with an unamused look on Chris’ behalf.

“Yes, me.” He replies, again feigning offense. “I made varsity freshman year and I was the best point guard my school had ever seen.”

“Now it just sounds like you’re bragging.” James says pointedly, but he’s not complaining. 

Chris ducks his head, still struggling to open himself up completely. “I’m a terrific ball handler.” He quips, not one to get embarrassed about dirty jokes.

“You do this thing.” James notices, humored by the joke. “Where you only smile at the ground and that’s only if anyone can get you to crack a smile, which not to brag, but I’ve been doing pretty well lately.”

Chris looks up, hands in his pockets and he looks out into the darkness. It’s all encompassing and he can only see a few feet ahead, but he feels small. Especially next to James — but maybe, he figures, he owes it to himself to verbalize his actions. To see that maybe he isn’t doing himself any favors, that maybe this is just a less destructive form of self sabotage. “It’s residual.” He offers, quietly at first. “From Laura dying. I think I’m scared to let people in, because you never know when someone’s going to walk away. I have all these surface level friends because I’m really outgoing and extroverted and I’m not even saying this to be self-absorbed, but I feel like people are drawn to me, in general, because I have a low tolerance for bullshit and I call it like I see it. I have, like, this Ryan Reynolds complex and I’m not gloating — I swear, but I really hold myself back in regards to getting to know people, or rather letting people get to know me, because I just don’t want to get hurt again.”

“Start with me.” James says gently. He uses his elbow to lightly nudge Chris along as they walk.

“Okay.” Chris bristles, uncertainly. Taking his hands out of his pockets, and they brush against James’ a time or two before they’re silently holding hands again; not that he minds.

Unceremoniously, the game ends and they head inside donning new bug bites. Chris cares less about having lost the game this time around because in some aspects, he feels like he’s won, now with James backing him.

Days go by and Chris allows himself to blossom, slowly. Their Ugandan sisters and brothers, united now by the Book of Arnold, bring by bottles of booze one night and knowing what he knows now about James’ home life, he understands why he always hangs back — joking that he’ll be the designated driver despite the lack of necessity for transportation. Game nights become more fun when they can get more people involved — not to mention alcohol’s involvement, once the elders can move past their initial apprehensions.

Chris had seen his slow decline from a mile away. It was only a matter of time before he resorted to breaking the rules — he was just glad, perhaps selfishly, that he hadn’t been the first to do it. If he had, he’s not sure Connor would have ever forgiven him, but the way Connor dotes over Kevin Price makes Chris think that he’s thoroughly enjoying his permanent vacation from the Church.

A few drinks in, Chris watches across the backyard as Kevin crouches down so that Connor can easily climb onto his back — and it’s in no way a competition or part of a game, but there’s an illogical, nagging voice in the back of Chris’ head that makes him feel as though it is, despite knowing full well it isn’t.

He watches Kevin dig his heels into the ground for support and it feels a lot like watching a bull prepare to charge. “What’re you guys doing?” Chris asks innocently enough, crossing the backyard to confront the pair with James on his heels.

Connor is laughing into Kevin’s shoulder as Kevin tries to stabilize his footing. “Nothing.” Connor laughs, white knuckle gripping Kevin to stay upright. “Kevin just offered to carry me because my feet are tired.”

Chris sizes them up, certain (and he’s not sure why), that this is some sort of challenge. “I bet I could carry you.” He decides, spinning around to face James a little too enthusiastically. Instinctually, James grabs Chris’ wrist before he can playfully hit his chest and after a beat of awkward silence that Chris doesn’t seem to notice, James drops his hand.

Chris doesn’t seem to see the problem and James doesn’t want to look dumb if he apologizes for something that isn’t an issue for anyone else — it was just a self defense mechanism, honestly, conditioned after years of being beat on by his father. The presence of alcohol does something to him, makes him skittish and defensive and he knows he hasn’t hurt Chris, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. He does, however, find some solace in learning that alcohol doesn’t turn everyone into his dad.

Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck. Quick, this time, to catch Chris by the forearm to hold him up before he can trip over himself. “I bet you could.” He says assuredly, answering Chris’ bet, “But we don’t have to do that tonight. I would squish you like a bug.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” Chris raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the supportive grip James has around his forearm.

“Sure, tough guy.” James laughs, brushing the brief incident off the best he can as Chris remains unaffected. “Not tonight.”

As the night progresses, James realizes that maybe a little alcohol was the help Chris needed to communicate effectively without the standards he holds himself to or the walls he’s put up. He’s fun and he’s sociable and he captivated the room in a way that has everyone doting over him until he very clearly tells James he’s ready to be done with the spotlight, asking for help back to his room.

“I think it’s ironic,” Chris snorts, sinking into the edge of his bed with James’ help but determined to pull his shoes off himself — and he’s laughing at a joke he hasn’t even finished, “that my name means Carrier of Christ.”

James smiles, unsure what brought about the topic of conversation. “A little drunk etymology with Chris Thomas, huh? What other skills you got? Can you read my zodiac chart?”

“No.” Chris laughs, nudging him lightly in jest with his shoulder. “I might be able to read your palm.” He slurs, taking James hand in his own before decidedly curling his own hand around it after failing to produce results, “Nothing.”

James laughs, gently squeezing Chris’ hand. “Out of commission?”

“That’s it.” Chris nods his agreement, kicking his shoes across the floor and loosening his tie. He’d wanted to do it earlier and then he’d forgotten and his brain feels equal parts happy and foggy. There’s comfortable silence. Then, “I think your name means shepherd.”

“Supplanter, actually. I googled it once.” James corrects, absentmindedly running his thumb over Chris’.

Chris hums, resting his head against James’ shoulder as he weighs his options — as if he has the authority to change the definition of James’ name. “I think you’d make a better shepherd than a supplanter, whatever that is.”

“Why’s that?” James prods.

“You . . .” Chris starts, searching for the right words as he lets his legs swing back and forth over the edge of the bed in thought, “I don’t know. Guide me? Enable me? You expect me to tell you exactly what I mean right now? I’m drunk.”

“At least you’re honest.” James compromises with a soft laugh, “But I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” Chris reaffirms quietly. Then, punctuating every word, “Because I am complimenting you.”

“You have kind of an aggressive way of flirting.” James comments, slipping it in now on the off chance that Chris hasn’t been flirting and the hope that if this is the case, he won’t remember James commenting such tomorrow.

Chris frowns, hand still wrapped around James’. “Is that– Are you not into that?”

James shrugs. He’s certainly not not into it, but his flirting style is different; gentle, guiding, hoping Chris will produce the results he wants if he can send him the right message. He isn’t outright like Chris, isn’t as extroverted or confident. Maybe Chris is onto something with his shepherd philosophy. Maybe James is goading Chris into something more than friends, ushering him to take the lead. Where Chris possesses a dominant personality — James is a gentle giant. After growing to resent his father, he’s of the mind that it’s better to be loved than feared and he has no problem giving Chris control. He wants nothing to do with being in charge or calling shots, he just wants his thoughts and opinions heard and considered.

“Hmmm?” Chris hums again, making sure James is still with him.

“Yeah, no, you’re good.” James answers finally; squeezing Chris’ hand in silent reassurance. ”I was just thinking, is all.”

Chris presses himself further into James’ side, making himself comfortable as he gives into his drowsiness. Eventually, James decides it’s time for bed, gently rousing Chris just enough to convince him to sleep off the alcohol and slip under the covers and he retreats back to his own room, tiptoeing past a sleeping Michaels’.

A couple days later, James finds Chris leaning against Connor’s desk with a paper knife and an envelope in hand. “You get one?” He asks, glancing up as James enters the room with a small knock. They’ve talked in the interim, but letters from home are a big deal and Chris is scared to open his.

“Yeah.” James sighs, itching his eyebrow as he sinks onto the edge of Chris’ freshly made bed. “Surprisingly, my mom doesn’t care as much as I thought she would. She’s just worried about my future.”

“What do you want to do?” Chris asks, stalling as he gently taps the paper knife against the exterior of the envelope.

James leans back on his bed, spreading his palms flat against the comforter for support as he thinks. “History teacher, probably. You?”

“Therapist.” Chris nods and James pats the space on the bed beside him.

“You’d be good at that.” He says, willing to distract Chris from the task at hand for as long as needed, but to doesn’t take long for Chris to take action now that he’s got company — easily slicing through the top of the envelope with the paper knife and leaning forward to push it onto Connor’s desk when he’s done so he doesn’t misplace it. James ducks his head, waiting silently for Chris to read his letter without prying.

“Did you hear about Connor’s parents?” Chris asks suddenly, stalling again as he glances back at James with the letter overturned on his lap. “They disowned him and Kevin’s dad wrote a really nasty letter, but his Mom called him the other day and said that they got his things put away in some storage unit and that she and his siblings would help him move into someplace new when he got back. She’s disappointed but she said they’d figure out how to work through this and I think he broke down and told her everything that happened with the General.”

Chris sighs, looking back to his own letter and James thinks it best not to interrupt as he finally looks it over. “They wish I’d chosen a different path.” He relays, folding the letter at the crease and gently sliding it back onto the desk next to the paper knife. “But they know it’s been a hard year on all of us, so they’re sympathetic, I guess. I don’t know what I was expecting. Either they were gonna tell me to live my life however I want or they were going to kick me out, so I guess I got the better end of that deal.”

“I think they’re more afraid of empty nests than they are of anything else.” James offers.

“Connor’s parents are highly homophobic.” Chris frowns, “I guess this was really their last resort in hoping he’d change and I have to say, I know he struggles with accepting himself, but I’m glad he didn’t change for them. Whatever he and Kevin have going on makes him happy.”

“Did Kevin tell his parents?” James follows up, because it seems like Chris has all of the gossip.

Chris draws one knee to his chest in thought, the other dangling off the side of the bed. “No? I don’t know. I don’t know if Kevin’s entirely sure what he wants. He’s kind of oblivious.”

“So they’re not dating?” James double-checks and Chris laughs in response, stealing an unabashed smile now that he’s started coming out of his shell around James.

“More like painfully pining for one another, but Arnold and I are both working behind the scenes to push them closer together.” Chris answers and it doesn’t take much but bringing up Kevin once in a while and reaffirming his suspicions that Connor’s head over heels for the boy.

Carefully, James asks, “Do your parents know?”

“That I’m bisexual?” Chris quirks an eyebrow, lightly nudging James as if to tell him off. “Yeah, I told Laura because I wanted her to know. We were sitting in hospice one day and we just decided to get everything off our chests, so that, I don’t know she could die at peace and I could unload some weight from my shoulders and I just straight up told her everything; like, that I kinda had this thing for a guy in my psych class and I don’t remember how it all happened — I think maybe she was trying to set me up with one of the younger nurses, but my parents found out and I think they tell themselves its a phase to make themselves feel better, but I think at the same time they don’t really care all that much because that was the least of their worries, you know? And realistically, it sounds selfish, but if they disown me they’ve lost both their kids so they have to learn to be tolerant and I think they know that.”

“How do you say such depressing things so nonchalantly?” James frowns, empathetic.

Chris shrugs in response, letting it roll off his shoulders. “I spent a lot of time crying and now I just figure life sucks and then you die, so I’m just trying to make it suck less.”

“Fair plan.” James concedes, catching Chris’ inquisitive eye. “What’re you thinking?”

Intentions unfurling, Chris leans in, eyes first making contact with James’ lips — asking silently for the permission he’s quickly granted and softly, Chris kisses him. Warm lips meeting as Chris cups the side of his face in one hand, swinging one leg over James’ lap to put him at a better vantage point.

“We should take it slow.” James says gently, a hand on Chris’ chest as they pull away, briefly. It’s not that Chris is a bad kisser, or that he’s ashamed, even. He’s more afraid of being taken away in a whirlwind and losing the friend he’s made and Chris nods his agreement, but strategically pushes back until James’ elbows give out under him.

They’re good about listening to one another, taking things slow as days and weeks pass.

“What happens when we get back to the States?” James asks innocently enough one day, meeting Chris under the scarce shade of a lone tree outside the small school building they’ve been using to help give back to the community under the Book of Arnold.

Chris flicks the cap of his water bottle at him in jest, downing the rest as he thinks. “Connor’s thinking about New York.”

“Is that what you’re thinking?” James asks, stooping to pick up Chris’ litter before taking up a seat beside him on the ground.

“New Yorkers need therapists,” Chris smiles, lightly nudging James, “and history teachers.”

“What and nowhere else does?” James teases back.

Chris scoffs, tossing his entire water bottle back at James now that he’s crushed it and screwed the lid back on. “Do you really want to go back to Provo?”

“God, no.” James snorts, “I was just making sure you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure.” Chris says confidently, “Plus, we’re all kind of family now. I can’t let Connor take on New York alone, especially if Kevin and Arnold plan to stay here an extra two months.”

“If you’re sure.” James repeats, easily putting his trust into Chris as he collects a kiss. He pushes himself to his feet, pulling Chris up after him. Gratuitously, Chris curtsies and in jest, James presses a kiss to the backside of his hand. Together, they dissolve into laughter as they head back to their work.

Chris had been plagued by a fear of loss, afraid to make long term decisions or to get too attached to people, but there was something about James that absolved him of any fear. Something reassuring about his spontaneity that made their brief conversation about New York seem like a serious roadmap for their future. Something that made Chris open up, laughing and smiling at things unabashedly with James at his side. There’s no doubt in his mind that they can make New York work for them.

**Author's Note:**

> BIGGEST THANKS TO @StarKidMcFly FOR DEVELOPING CHRIS AND JAMES WITH ME. If you liked this, I guarantee you will see more of them soon, because I have a lot of little dumb scenarios written between the two of them that I might just post.
> 
> THANK YOU TO @Panda_Birds FOR READING THE FIRST DRAFT OF THIS AND CALLING ME OUT ON MY BAD CHARACTERIZATION OF CHRIS. (He was too much of a crossover between Connor and Kevin at first, on accident, but I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong.)
> 
> Another thanks to my extroverted friend, Abbey. She doesn't have an account but she saw BOM with me when it toured Chicago and she let me bombard her with personal questions about being an extroverted person so I could correctly characterize Chris. 
> 
> Kudos & Comments appreciated! You can find me on Tumblr @afterafternoons and you're more than welcome to message me or drop me a head canon, or I don't know, look at the dumb stuff I post. 
> 
> Love you all!!


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